


Why Don't We Just Dance?

by Meduseld



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Disco, First Time, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28637772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: Sharky, the Deputy and music tend to be an explosive combination.
Relationships: Sharky Boshaw/Deputy | Judge, Sharky Boshaw/Male Deputy | Judge
Kudos: 13





	Why Don't We Just Dance?

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this a remix if [_What’s Your Pleasure?_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26842891) with more disco.

Most people, and by that he means judges, parole officers and a significant chunk of his extended family, think that Sharky’s problem is impulse control.

Which okay, right now, Dep’s cock so deep inside him Sharky can taste it in the back of his throat, he can see why they would say that.

The thing is, he’s never seen the point in denying himself what he wants, whether that’s fire or disco or his boss-ass fucking hoodie, thank you very much.

And considering it’s gotten him mayorly laid instead of clocked into unconsciousness by the deadliest motherfucker in all of Hope County, he has no fucking incentive to curb himself in.

Even when things don’t go his way, at least things change. A Molotov might not fix the problem at hand, but it made a new one.

The thing was, it wasn’t solely Sharky’s fault. The day had been too wet for flames of any kind. The past one too, actually.

Rains in Montana are something to take seriously. They’re not some prissy city drizzle; flash floods are a fucking thing in Hope County.

So, everyone’s been locked inside.

Not even Faith is that psycho, or that willing to get her Angels killed over nothing. The point is, the Dep’s been holed up with him at Boshaw Manor, generally sitting on the couch and being good company.

Who would have thought one of Sharky's favorite people in the world would be a cop? But he is.

Dep's got this way of saying everything while saying nothing at all, just moving his eyebrows or smirking or giving this little huff.

Sharky would say it’s like having a dog that can shoot, but he’s not the one with his hand on the leash and Dep’s a few too many shades of loco and trigger-happy for that. A coyote in human shape, maybe.

When he says it, Dep gives him that _oh boy, you might have brain damage_ look, but he’s close to smiling. That might be down to the fact that the rain is also stirring up the Bliss that’s seeped into the ground, but it’s fine.

It means Sharky just feels like dancing, blaring disco music and shaking his ass all over the manor like he’s a girl in a rap video. He’s only in his underwear, after all.

A lot of that is the alcohol, too.

Dep doesn’t seem to mind, sunk into his couch, eyes down to the predatory slits of a relaxed cat. That look has nothing to do with alcohol.

He’s not sure if dogs and their owners look like each other but Peaches and Dep do. Dangerous fuckers.

Sharky has a rap sheet a mile long but he’s never felt that tough. Never even been around anybody like that, a real Ford-tough, hard-as-nails, effortlessly badass motherfucker like the Dep, not even in lock up.

If he’d ever known a cop like that before, that sheet would be half the size, easy.

“Why _Sharky_ , you flatter me” Dep says, imitating John Seed’s shitkicker drawl, because he’s an asshole. Granted, you have to rile them up real good to get it to break out, but Sharky’s good at getting under people’s skin.

“You start spouting any Jesus shit and I’ll throw you out, I’m not kidding” Sharky says, but he wouldn’t.

Dep almost smiles. Which means his eyes crinkle a little and the edges of his mouth pretend to lift, a bit. It’s sad, honestly.

Sharky’s never seen him smile, not for real, not when he’s not mocking Peggies or someone else.

All he’s seen of his teeth, sharp and strong, have been from snarls. He’s not kidding when he says he and Peaches are some sort of kin.

But the thing is, the Dep doesn’t smile. No one makes him smile.

Not even Donna Summer, voice blaring from the stereo about wanting, nay, _needing_ some Hot Stuff, _tonight_.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Dep says and see that’s the thing.

The man doesn’t turn off. Never stops with his killer Terminator instinct which sure is cool and kind of hot, but he needs to relax.

And he’s already said no to Sharky’s extensive, if he does say so himself, array of psychoactive substances.

“Alright handsome, square up” he says and it’s kind of stupid because he’s pretty sure that he sees Dep reach for a blade on his person somewhere but hey, everybody who knows him knows Sharky loves playing with fire.

He lands hard, harder than he means to. Maybe he’s a little more wasted than he thought.

Maybe it would have happened anyway. The Dep’s thighs are like rock fucking hard, which makes sense given how many mountains he climbs and how often the Peggies make him run.

The point is, Sharky’s legs splay out on either side of him, the denim of his jeans lighting up the inside of his thighs.

It’s a good-bad burn, making him wiggle right into Dep’s crotch, sliding too far down too fast too hard and he hisses, hips bucking on instinct.

Sharky was just aiming for a lap dance, but they’re practically dry humping as is. At least until Dep’s big broad hands reach out, grabbing his middle and pulling him far up enough to leave enough room for Jesus.

The Seeds would shit a brick, but Sharky can’t laugh, not with the feel of the calloused flat of his palms, strong from work with guns and shovels, molded on the bones of his hips, from head to crest.

“What are you doing” Dep says, in a flat, foreboding breath. “Having some fun man, you’ve heard of that, right?” he says, trying for a sexy wiggle and nearly toppling over.

Only Dep’s hands, tightening hard on his skin, keep him from falling. It’s really hot, actually. Addie’s said it before, he’s all man.

In the middle of their silent staring contest, the song clicks over. From the stereo, Anita Ward warbles that she’s glad they’re home, did they really miss her?

Dep’s eyes are flat chips in his face, like ice. Normally, the blue is warm enough for swimming. He gets distracted by them and knocked back when Dep’s growl reverberates in his chest, and holy shit he can feel that when he grinds out “Sharky”.

It kicks both his head, up and down stairs, into gear because he wants more. “C’mon man, let me. Relax a little” he says, managing to grind down a little, now that he’s remembered that _oh yeah_ , he can lay his hands on the back of the couch for purchase, framing Dep’s face with his arms.

Which means their faces are too close to get away with a quick pit sniff to make sure he’s not like, rank and killing the mood, but Dep hasn’t shoved him off.

“You’re crazy” he says at last, dropping his head back in his _fine I’m indulging you_ way. But the way his legs relax, just a little, under Sharky, weight shifting back from his toes to his heels, means it’s alright.

Sharky gets into the groove with Anita, imploring them to ring her bell, moving with the music, enjoying how Dep’s face smoothes back into a predator’s resting kill face.

He’s a feral kind of beautiful, like Big Sky Country itself. No wonder Sharky can’t keep his hands to himself.

He keeps sinking deeper into Dep’s lap, making little noises he hopes only he can hear at the scrape of denim on his skin, his hands coming slowly forward until they’re locked behind the heat of Dep’s neck, the hair tickling the soft skin hidden where the end of his thumb meets his wrist.

It’s thick and strong, like the fur of an animal, a wild one.

His breath catches when he realizes it’s not his own thoughts he’s hearing, but Errol Brown singing that he now believed in miracles because he was such a sexy thing.

“Enjoying yourself?” Dep drawls, running one strong knuckle along the bulge tenting at the front of Sharky’s shorts.

He’d like to claim he was all sexy and suave about it, but what happens is that he makes a noise like a dying whale and collapses on Dep, breathing into his neck like he’s hurt.

He smells good, all manly and shit, but a little like Boshaw Manor, gunpowder and accelerants, now, too.

“Good” Dep rumbles and then his hands are inside Sharky’s not exactly enormous shorts and honestly, Sharky is willing to let him do whatever.

Even if this turns into a fucking Hannibal and/or Jacob the Cannibal scenario. “Not what I was thinking” Dep huffs and Sharky didn’t notice it was out loud, has little to no filter at the best of times, much less when most of his blood is in his lap.

Dep shifts, spreading his legs and by extension Sharky’s thighs on them, the denim making him whine, so Sharky sprawls forward to compensate and feels, against his abs, that Dep’s little buddy is pretty into this too, given the way he’s rock hard and trying to break through his zipper.

And then Dep’s right hand skims along Sharky’s lower back and, if he does say so himself, rather tasteful fucking tramp stamp he got one Spring Break. He didn’t go to college but that didn’t mean he couldn’t party with them anyway.

Then that hand is inside his goddamn shorts, which are already stretched practically to bursting, when the middle finger, thick and solid, slides right down the middle and taps at his hole and he definitely moans into Dep’s neck.

“You want something, you gotta ask for it” he says and Sharky takes it all back, he definitely did not need to see that evil fucking grin on Dep’s face, wicked and wild, like a hungry vampire but the hot Lost Boys kind not the corpse-y Nosferatu ones.

“You son of a bitch” he breathes because he’s a little light headed and more turned on than he’s ever felt.

Dep’s other hand comes down hard on his ass and he yelps, then ruins the effect by grinding against Dep’s middle, messing up the fabric of his shirt. Dep’s abs are just as hard as the rest of him, hauling the hardware he does while running all over the county tends to tone you to hell and back.

“I- uh- fuck” he says because his brain is turning to jelly and he wants, wants and _wants_ but he has no idea what or how to ask.

The thing is, he doesn’t have much experience with guy-on-guy, or like, at all. So sue him, he’s spent most of his life in Montana.

“Is that what you want? To get _fucked_?” Dep says, pulling Sharky’s hips back so he’s grinding on air and feeling the loss of the rest of it, Dep’s body and scent and heat.

There’s enough blood in his head left to have the lucid thought that teasing like that from anybody else might get him defensive, angry, scared or just as bummed as the thing with Wendy Snorbush and it’s a little too wet outside to light any fires. But it’s the Dep.

Sharky’s told him everything already, with his words and his body, and the man’s hard too and yeah, he actually really truly wants to get fucked tonight. Go figure.

Maybe some of those townie fucks were onto something when they said he was a weirdo for loving disco. And apparently dick too. At least it’s alliterative.

“Please give it to me, with your dick, man” he manages to choke out before yeah, whatever blood was left north of his neck rushes down as Rook bites into his shoulder, brings his hips forward with his left hand and keeps messing with Sharky with the right.

It’s possible Sharky gasps out his name, but he feels he’s allowed, if they’re gonna do this. Not that he can hold onto the thought for long with the way Rook is touching him.

Sharky knew the motherfucker could multitask but he never thought it would feel like this. He’s seen all of Rook’s focus, his strength, aimed at people with the aim of utter annihilation. But now that’s all turned _to_ him.

Sharky might not survive, though, and honestly, he could live with it. Death by sex sounds like the best way to go.

Rook definitely seems to think so, fucking rippling his body under Sharky like a high-quality stripper.

Between one wave and the next, Sharky’s shorts are finally gone, and though he can breathe a little better, it just means his skin is on fire, aching and burning at the scrape of denim and flannel and Rook’s teeth and calluses.

It’s like he’s everywhere, licking and biting all over Sharky’s neck and chest in a way that says he’s going to have some very interesting hickeys, while his hands run all over his body, his hips moving in a way that makes Sharky feel like he’s holding on for dear life while riding a very special bull.

Which means he doesn’t notice one of his hands sneaking into the back pocket of his jeans until he hears the tearing of a lube pack, or at least some form of gel or lotion. It registers only vaguely until he feels one slick finger right on his rim and he jumps like a spooked horse. Or. The v-word. Which he is, technically.

Rook chuckles into his hair, gentling him, which is actually the bit he’s felt weirdest about, so far. He doesn’t like being dead weight, born unwanted and making up for it, and Sharky knows Rook depends on him to do his job right, knows how much everyone else demands of him and hates adding to the burden.

Someone has to have his back.

Even if his heart was hammering, as excited as the Pointer Sisters on the stereo. “Relax” Rook rumbles and he does, determined to do this well.

And not just because if they both get off, and enjoy it, there’s the possibility of doing the devil’s tango more often, just the two of them.

The sisters are right, he’s about to lose control and he’s gonna _like it._

Then the finger is in him and maybe he can’t do this after all, because just the tip feels huge and filling and splitting him at the seams in a way that makes him impossibly hot for it and absolutely terrified all at once.

But when he gasps, trying to take in the suddenly vanished air, Rook’s tongue snakes into his mouth.

Maybe the Seeds are onto something, because it feels sinful, _wicked_ and Sharky can’t get enough.

Rook’s moving in him, _thrusting_ , in two places at once, splitting him open, laying him bare and he’s making little noises and begging for more. Begging for _him_.

“Little more first” Rook grins into his neck, nipping at the soft skin of the hollow of his throat in a way that makes him jump, just as another finger joins the first.

“Oh, _fuck_ ” is all he manages to choke out before dropping his head on Rook’s shoulder which actually hurts. He’s too ripped for there to be anything even close to cushioning on the muscle and bone. There might not be a single soft spot on his body.

Feels like two of the hardest are moving _inside_ Sharky, making him shake, coming together and moving apart and making him realize it feels like his whole body is singing.

He can't stand it anymore and breaks, begging "Please," practically sobbing, “ _Please_. Fuck me, I'm ready."

Rook grins that monster’s grin and says “Not yet, not quite” and then there was a third finger in him and a thumb in his mouth and Sharky thought this was what dying and going to Heaven must be like.

Fuck the Seeds, he knew it was always going to be a carnal ticket.

Not that he can say much, moaning like he’s agonizing, on Rook’s fingers alone.

Apparently what Rook was waiting for was for words to desert Sharky until all he could make was noise and then Rook's pants were open, just enough to draw himself out and move, deep as he could, into Sharky.

It helped that Sharky sunk down on him all the way, sliding down the shaft, dead weight already even though he was still painfully, desperately hard.

The metal teeth of his zipper bit into him, the softest, most sensitive, most hidden skin on his body as Rook worked him up and down.

It was unfair how hot it was.

Donna, wailing from the stereo, insisted that since she worked hard for the money, he better treat her right, but she had it backwards. Rook was treating him _right_ by making him work hard.

Sharky’s thighs were already on fire from moving and he would ache come tomorrow, no way around it. And it was worth it, the way his body was being unwound with pleasure and his mind melted into nothing with how good it was, how good Rook looked like this, sprawled out and moving in Sharky.

There was a hot pink flush on his cheeks, his lower lip sticking out, candy red and he was so beautiful he took Sharky’s breath away. Or maybe that was the way he was slamming into Sharky so hard that the air was knocked out of his lungs.

There wasn’t a name for the sensation, burning through him, spreading with every thrust, Rook so deep inside it was like he’d never come out, searing a brand in him.

Especially with the way Rook’s hands spanned his hips down to the top of his ass, rough enough to leave bruises and make Sharky _keen_.

Sharky shuddered against him, rolling back, unconsciously imitating every stripper he knew, meeting his movements, taking everything Rook gave.

He couldn't hear the music anymore, over the sound of their breathing, hot and heavy, and the slap of skin on strong, denim covered thighs.

And then one of Rook’s hands skated down Sharky’s side and up, running along his lips, and then down, down, down to circle the wet head of his cock.

Sharky bucked, right into the snap of Rook’s hips and screamed. The world went white hot and still, and then the fire was back, burning in him as Rook came.

Sharky moaned, draped over him, muscles liquid or at the very least Jell-O. “Sharks” Rook huffs and Sharky laughs because somehow, it’s hilarious.

Dep Rook just fucked his brains out and put his body in a blender to boot, and he sounds just the same as he does every day, in command and with a plan.

Sharky tries to give him a nice sloppy kiss to say something like _happy thank you more please_ but ends up just mouthing slobber along the edge of his jaw and Rook _laughs_. He sounds delighted, like he does when Boomer brings home elk bones or Peggie femurs.

It’s kind of. Endearing. At the very least Sharky’s heart flutters in his chest.

“Let’s get you to bed” says in his Dep voice, picking Sharky up like he weighs nothing and he’s still got too much blood away from his brain to make a joke about it.

Dep drops him on his messy, too-soft-from-too-many-washes sheets and turns as if to go.

“Stay” Sharky slurs out, proud it’s mostly intelligible. He can work on multiple words tomorrow. Dep goes still, head cocked, like he’s trying to spot traps in a field.

Then, shadowed in the dark doorway, Sharky sees his hands unfurl. “I was just going to go and turn the stereo off” he says at last and Sharky flops his hand uselessly in his direction like a cranky toddler: _“No. Come''_. Two syllables, a herculean miracle.

For a moment, he thinks the Dep will just turn, and leave, and be gone whenever Sharky can get his legs to obey him again. But in the silence, or as close to quiet as it could be with the beat still grooving out of the speakers, Rook laughs again. But softer, smaller.

Then he kicks out of his jeans, pulls his shirt off and Sharky huffs at the fact that it’s too dark to really enjoy the peep show. Something to add to the to do list.

Rook is warm and solid and close and Sharky goes to sleep between one moment and the next, to the sound of the Bee Gees assuring him that no matter what, they were staying alive.

He hopes so.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [_Why Don't We Just Dance?_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IH1Z9DEDqpk) by Josh Turner, but you should imagine Sharky dancing like [Lafayette on _True Blood_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9u1CGlMW9zw). I think context is enough to find the songs mentioned in text, but if you have any doubts hmu.


End file.
